


when you let me know what was real

by voodoochild



Category: Tony Hill & Carol Jordan - All Media Types, Wire in the Blood
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Horror, F/M, Mindfuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-25
Updated: 2010-10-25
Packaged: 2017-10-12 21:23:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/129223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voodoochild/pseuds/voodoochild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Disturbed personalities need something stable to grasp onto. She was his. And she's gone. (Takes place post-season 3 in TV continuity.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	when you let me know what was real

**Author's Note:**

> Written for **carla_scribbles** , for the **sharp_teeth** horror meme comment-fic-athon, for the prompt _"Carol used to be everything to Tony: his compass, his lifeline, his one bridge back to the world. And then she left."_ Title from Jeff Buckley's "Hallelujah", if you'll forgive the use of it.

He drives to the station, he drives home. Another day of work.

Carol is waiting for him, shifting papers around the desk and pacing the room. She rustles the curtains as she passes.

He wants to talk to her; there's a new case today. Fourth body found, young immigrant men, all from Darlington, except for the latest from Bradfield. The killer binds them, hands and feet, and makes them kneel. Supplication. Penance. But for what? They've got no records, nothing in their pasts that makes them a target.

He can't visualize the killer. He needs to focus, that's what Carol would say. Does say, sitting in her chair.

"Talk to me, Tony. Tell me how he's choosing them."

He sits in the lower chair, the one against the wall.

"They've just moved here. Fresh start. Escape. A need to become something new, in a city where no one knows who you used to be."

She cocks her head, inquisitive. Always asking questions, his Carol. "Escape?"

"All four were brought up in strict Christian households. Thou shalt not."

"The ten commandments?" Her back is to the door, hands on the arms of the chair. Or, it would be, if she were sitting there. "Is that connected?"

The window is cold at his back. Autumn. She's wearing short sleeves. Isn't it cold for that?

"Yes. I am the Lord your God, you shall have no other gods before me. First commandment. First victim, Abed Nasir. Mother said he was a bit wild as a youth, always into trouble. Ran with a gang of Satanists, thought they could summon up the Devil. Careful what you wish for, speak of the Devil and he will appear. Abed Nasir saw the Devil that night."

Nasir had been burned, and Tony gets up, digs through his bag for the pictures. He splays them out on the floor, angle by angle, shot by shot. A crude five-pointed star, burned into Nasir's chest.

"Fire is pure, it cleanses. He wanted Nasir to be clean, but at the same time, he wanted to remind him of what he'd done. The fires of hell, come to collect his soul."

"All right. Let's move on." Carol nods, points to the next folder. "Second commandment, second victim?"

Logical, following the precise order of the commandments. Order is important, things must be structured. Carol can appreciate that, she puts things in order. Put him in order.

"Second commandment. You shall not take the Lord's name in vain. Second victim, Timothy Walker, rugby commentator. Swore all the time, but what made him so bad? What makes him a target for punishment, for discipline?"

"Any prior felonies or misdemeanors, or a history like Nasir's?"

He drops into the chair, perfect posture. This killer is disciplined. Always focused, nothing like Tony. He can't be Tony and understand how this man works. Sit up straight, feet on the floor, chin up, arms on the chair, body tense and rigid. Like Carol.

"No," he says, dismissive. "Where did you learn your posture, Carol?"

She smiles - god, he loves that, the way she used to (still does) smile just for him. Soft and sweet, a little amused. Humoring him, yes, but still affectionate. "Dance class. Seven years of ballet as a child. Do you dance, Tony?"

Her question throws him. Who's Tony?

Oh. Right. Him.

"Never was much for it. Two left feet, though that's not genetically possible. I was always worried I might tromp all over a poor girl's toes. Vanessa tried to teach me to waltz, but I was hopeless."

Sharp-tongued Vanessa, barking orders. Trying to "make a man" out of him. No one could; there was no humanity to build upon that she hadn't already torn out.

"No one is hopeless," Carol says, pushing the third file at him. "Let's move on. Walker's victimology profile will work itself out later, when you have more to go on. Number three?"

Something twists in his stomach, but he ignores it. Carol needs him. He needs Carol. She's asked him a question.

"Honor the Sabbath Day and keep it holy. Franz Yelsen, played for Bergen in the German League. Sunday games. But the Jewish Sabbath starts Friday - he'll have been killed on a Friday. Still waiting for the coroner's report. Found two Sundays ago, a Bible in his hands. New signature. Evolution. The reimagining of something old into something new. Our killer is becoming something different than he was."

Carol hums, shakes her head. "Personalization, Tony?"

"I don't know what you mean."

She gets to her feet, walking over to his chair. She's very close, knee in between his legs, looking down at him. Close enough to smell - that perfume she used to buy, what was it?

"I think you do," she says. "You're becoming something, too. Is DI Fielding to blame?"

The Guv. No, Alex isn't the Guv, Carol's the Guv. Snaps her fingers and everyone sits up. A natural dominant.

"No. You. It's always you."

"That's sweet, but I think you're confusing my meaning. I don't mean personally, I mean biologically."

Oh. Yes. That.

He tries not to think about it, but it's hard. Especially when Carol isn't there - and she's never there, not really, he knows this. Visual and auditory hallucinations are always the first to come; Maggie taught him that. First come the echoes. Carol's perfume in the station; her voice in his ear as he studies case files and psych evaluations. Next comes the fixation; something to act as a touchstone for the mind.

Disturbed personalities need something stable to grasp onto. She was his.

And she's gone.

But why can he still hear her?

"Tony, you're beginning to see, aren't you?" She sits on his lap, legs stretched over the arm of the chair, his palm cradling her calf. This close, he can see the little lines around her eyes, feel the weight of her. Her hand touches his cheek (the way it always did), and she shakes her head. "I'm gone. I've been gone for weeks. This room? You're the only one in it. You haven't left to go to work, you haven't eaten much, barely slept. You know I'm not real, but you're still talking to me."

"I need you," he says, voice small and tight in his throat. "Carol, you _left_. And you wouldn't let me follow. No one tells me what to do anymore."

She brushes her thumb over his cheek - no, she has to, that's what she does. Grounds him, reminds him that he's only mortal and she can't be there to save him all the time.

"You mean no one needs you. Maggie. Angelica. Laura. You collect them, Tony - or rather, they've collected you. You draw them in and end up trapped in their web. But you've trapped yourself this time, haven't you?"

A submissive personality isn't forced into chains, he puts them on willingly. Offers up his wrists, saying " _please, control me. Take me. Use me as you will_ ". He offers up his brain, his knowledge, to women like Maggie and Angelica and Laura, but does not acknowledge their dominance over him.

They're not Carol.

"I told you that all relationships have a dominant and a submissive. You always knew that you were dominant to me. But it's not just that. We're the victims," he says, falling into their old roles. Profiler and copper. "A dominant and submissive partnership cannot work without both partners victimizing themselves, in certain ways. I surrender to your wishes, because you control me. You blame yourself for not controlling your own urges, much less mine."

"You're mixing your metaphors. You think we're a dominant and submissive partnership killing in tandem. We're not." She reaches over, brings her other hand to rest on his right cheek, spreading her fingers out. "Maggie got more inside your head than you realize."

"No, no. Maggie was all eyes and feet. Reliving what she'd done to her victims."

His hands are at her waist. When did they get there? How are they there?

Carol leans in, pushing the way she always does. Did. Does. Hair brushing against his cheek, the curve of her upper lip pursed just so. He always wanted to kiss it smooth, but never did. She left before he could get up the courage.

"And just what do you think you did every night? Put yourself into a killer's head and thought you could walk right back out again? You can't. No one can."

He used to be able to; she used to ask him to. Again and again, over and over, killer after killer after killer. Escalation. Violence begetting violence in a cycle that never ended. Why is it different now?

"Look around, Tony. See through the delusions. I'm not here."

 _Oh._

His flat is caked in dust, books left open to pages he'd read weeks ago. The cup of tea by his left arm is empty and has a ring around it. He can hear the drone of his answering machine, dozens of unheard messages. The food in his refrigerator has soured.

He is alone, and hungry, and frightened. There are marks on his arms (tally marks, one for each day she'd been gone) that he cannot remember putting there.

Too many of them for him to still be alive.

"It's all right, Tony. I'm here."

Not Carol. Dark curls, cherub cheeks, wrinkled face. Maggie.

"You finally came," she says, smiling brightly. "I waited for you."


End file.
